


Blue Moon

by Atroppa



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Werewolf Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-13
Updated: 2011-06-13
Packaged: 2017-10-20 09:13:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/211146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atroppa/pseuds/Atroppa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John turns into a wolf every full moon, but it doesn't stop Sherlock from wanting to have sex with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue Moon

This was the fourth time Sherlock had been around for the Change, as John called it, and they had spent most of the afternoon cleaning up the flat and putting away most of the non-essentials, just in case John ended up breaking something. The Change itself wasn't painful, or so John said, but there were always initial bursts of energy, enthusiasm for him to experience the flat from his wolf perspective, and one time John had knocked Sherlock's microscope over after scenting blood on the slides.

Typically, John would Change, Sherlock would introduce himself to John and let himself be sniffed and licked, they would play for a while. Often they'd sneak out through a window onto the streets of the city, avoiding being seen by others. Finally, in the hours before dawn, they'd curl up on the floor in front of the sofa, John's head on Sherlock's lap, one of Sherlock's hands stroking across his pelt as the other flipped through a book or a file folder from Scotland Yard. Sherlock wasn't typically one for peace, but even he could admit it was nice, having that one night a month of a completely different kind of companionship from John.

It was interesting seeing John in wolf form, seeing which behaviors translated from his human form. John in wolf form was less aggressive than Sherlock had expected -- an easygoing man seemed to make for an easygoing wolf -- but one with the potential to be deadly. John was moderately affectionate when in human form but in wolf form he was nearly impossible to separate from -- he kept pouncing, trying to get Sherlock to play, licking Sherlock's exposed hands and neck and leaving shed fur all over his clothes.

Tonight's Change seemed perfectly ordinary, as ordinary as an ex-military doctor transforming into an oversize wolf in the middle of a London flat could be. John transformed and Sherlock brought him a raw steak from the refrigerator, then when John had finished, Sherlock opened his bedroom window for the two of them to sneak out of. Instead of taking Sherlock to a deserted public park, as John usually did, this time John managed to locate a flight of stairs and bounded up onto the top of a building. They spent the night running across rooftops, John infinitely faster than Sherlock now in his wolf form, and finally made it back to the flat sometime around four.

Sherlock sat on the rug, back to the sofa, and John curled up next to him, smelling like damp fur and snuffling slightly. Sherlock scratched between his ears absently as he perused the most recent set of crime scene photographs. Nothing too challenging, and he texted Lestrade left-handed the identity of the perpetrator and where to find the murder weapon. John looked up at him with mild interest, ears perking, and Sherlock continued to pet him, hand moving over his muzzle and under his chin. John licked at his fingers, nuzzling Sherlock's palm.

In about an hour it would be dawn, and John would be back in human form. But not quite back to normal yet -- the Change always left traces behind, and John always spent the first few hours after the Change echoing the same actions, nuzzling Sherlock's neck with a nose instead of a snout, nipping at him with blunt teeth instead of fangs. The animal aggressiveness didn't leave him immediately, either -- he would attack Sherlock, pin him down, fuck him with such force that Sherlock's head would thud against the floor and he'd have bite marks and bruises for days. Such a change from the usually gentle John, no better or worse, but simply different. And Sherlock loved getting to know all the different sides of his John.

This was what pervaded Sherlock's thoughts now, having finished the case. The idea sent a spike of adrenaline through his system, and he closed his eyes and let himself indulge in the fantasy for a few seconds. He could feel himself hardening just thinking about it.

He was interrupted by a snuffle from his lap -- John had perked up, and was looking at Sherlock with his brow furrowed (very much like John in human form) and his ears flattened outward. John sniffed the air and nosed at Sherlock's torso, sniffed lower. It occurred to Sherlock that John might be able to sense his arousal -- wolves' sense of smell was greater than those of dogs', and if there were dogs that could sniff out cancer, maybe John could tell which neurotransmitters were being released in Sherlock's brain, which chemicals were floating in Sherlock's bloodstream this very moment.

"Sorry," said Sherlock, stroking John's fur and settling back against the sofa. He was faintly embarrassed at having been caught, but it didn't do anything to diminish his erection. In fact, the proximity of John's muzzle to his cock, the tactile feel of John's fur between his fingers, only seemed to _strengthen_ it. Contact was contact, and despite his form this was still _John_.

Sherlock pulled back and looked straight into John's eyes. He was no expert at reading the emotions of animals, but it seemed almost as if John was asking him a question. In response, Sherlock leaned in and pressed his face to the top of John's head, inhaling the smell of fur and sweat and the outdoors and the faint trace of tea that lingered no matter whether John took a shower or got thrown in a skip or changed physical form completely. It reassured him that this was still the man he loved, under everything.

Sherlock leaned back, lying down in the space between the sofa and the coffee table. John watched him with mild interest, ears twitching and shaking his head slightly. Sherlock felt almost awkward, but he forged ahead, bringing his forearms up to his chest and lifting his feet off the floor so that his legs were bent in midair. It must have looked ridiculous, but he was sure John's wolf instincts recognized his posture for what it was: submission, inviting John to pounce.

According to the literature, werewolves tended to be larger than normal wolves -- John's wolf body was nearly six feet in length, not including his impressive tail, and eminently powerful. Whereas John used his gun, his nerve, and his charm as weapons in real life, John in wolf form needed only use his body.

Sherlock felt the breath nearly knocked out of him as John pinned him down to the floor, standing over him in a way that would terrify any normal person. John did nothing but pant savagely for a few moments, then started to lick and nuzzle at Sherlock's face. Sherlock wriggled underneath him -- it was almost like play, but with more intent on both sides, and the heat coming from John's solid body only served to turn him on further.

He set about trying to remove his clothes -- of course John couldn't help him, and it was difficult to strip while pinned underneath one-hundred-sixty pounds of wolf. He managed to shrug out of his dressing gown, and John seemed to figure out what he was doing -- he stepped back slightly so Sherlock could strip off his tee-shirt and pajama pants, making soft growling noises as he waited.

Naked, face and neck wet with John's saliva, Sherlock lay back down in the same position. John licked at his face a few more times, then insinuated himself between Sherlock's legs. His tongue rasped roughly over Sherlock's torso and hips, then a few times over his cock -- and it felt _wonderful,_ so delightfully wrong and not-wrong at the same time.

"John," gasped Sherlock. "Move up, give me space -- "

He levered himself up, then under John's watchful expression, turned over onto his hands and knees -- presenting himself to John, just the way he'd read on the internet. The air from the open window hit the sweat on his back and made him shiver. He felt exposed, but no more so than he usually did, the two of them together in Sherlock's bed, exploring each other's bodies. This was no different.

Sherlock looked back over his shoulder, trying to make eye contact with John. John was looking slightly away, brow furrowed further as if wondering if this was the right decision -- he was still John underneath it all, moral to a fault, and if _Sherlock_ knew that this was supposed to feel wrong, then John must have felt it tenfold.

"Don't you want me?" Sherlock called back to him, pitching his voice higher. "I'm yours for the taking, John, come here." John's ears perked, and he padded forward hesitantly. The expression on his -- face, Sherlock supposed -- looked startlingly human, and Sherlock recognized John's desire in the wolf's eyes. He encouraged John with a smile, and wriggled his arse slightly to draw John's attention.

Sherlock gasped at the feeling of John's snout pushed against his arse, the colder tip of his nose surrounded by coarse fur. John sniffed several times, moving down to nose at Sherlock's scrotum, then back up to the cleft. Sherlock felt John begin to lick him again, sloppily but in earnest. The wolf's tongue was rougher and less precise than John's tongue -- opening him up with John's strong hands tight on Sherlock's arse cheeks -- but it was no less effective at sending sparks through his nerves, and Sherlock moaned as he pushed back into the contact.

John let out a soft whine, too, sounding more like his normal self than any canine. Sherlock wondered what this was doing for John -- whether it was turning him on despite the extreme taboo, or _because_ of it. John's taste in the bedroom was only mildly kinky, and even if he'd been a whip-wielding, latex-wearing fetishist, bestiality was still so far beyond the norm that Sherlock was surprised John was even indulging him at all.

"John, _John,_ " moaned Sherlock, "fuck me already." He was still looking over his shoulder, and he met John's eyes again. John stiffened, shaking his head back and forth -- a clear _no,_ and Sherlock's heart sank. "Oh, come on, John, I know you're considerably larger like this, but believe me, I've taken more. I won't break. I promise."

John's ears were raised and his fangs were bared -- he looked almost angry, but even if Sherlock hadn't known how to read wolf body language he would still know John was concerned. He reached an arm back to stroke John's fur, his hand landing awkwardly near John's face.

"It'll be all right," he said soothingly. "I know what I'm doing. You won't hurt me."

John snuffled, and brought his snout down to the small of Sherlock's back, pressing gently, almost like a kiss. Sherlock gave him the most reassuring smile he could manage. His neck was getting tired, so he turned to face forward, and felt a large weight settle over his lower half -- John had moved to stand on his hind legs, front legs grasping at Sherlock's hips as he growled and rutted against him. His claws left scratches on Sherlock's flanks and thighs, and with each sting of pain Sherlock felt his erection twitch.

"Come on, come on," said Sherlock, impatient. It was awkward to be the only one talking during this encounter, but John could do little more than growl and whine, and he was taking it slowly, responding to Sherlock's direction. He was surely afraid he'd hurt Sherlock -- it wasn't out of the realm of possibility, but Sherlock believed in hard-won pleasure, and he'd undergone worse in pursuit of far less satisfying outcomes. It wasn't just John who loved danger, and what was more dangerous than living with a werewolf -- than _loving_ one?

Sherlock flung a hand to the side and searched under the sofa for a sachet of lube they'd stashed there several weeks before. Tearing it open, he reached behind himself with one hand, prepping himself clumsily -- he should have done this sooner. His hand impacted with the fur over John's abdomen, and he stroked with a wet hand, the texture of John's skin under his fur so different from the usual.

The first touch of John's arousal against him made Sherlock nearly jerk away, but he was held in place by the tips of John's claws, digging just barely into his skin. Sherlock's breath came quick and shallow, and he quivered with anticipation -- was he ready? He had to be -- unlikely he'd get another chance.

Then John shuddered against him, fur bristling, and let out a long, low whine. Sherlock recognized the sound -- though this time, sounding more sorrowful than he'd ever heard before -- and his entire body flooded with disappointment. The living room of the flat was filled with pale grey light -- it had become morning without either of them noticing, and John was starting to Change back.

Agenda pushed to the back of his mind -- but not forgotten -- Sherlock extricated himself and left John curled up in on himself. He reached out a steadying hand to John, stroking gently, murmuring in a comforting tone as the fur on John's limbs became a light sprinkling of hair, as his entire body rearranged itself into the John he'd first met.

John lifted his head -- his eyes were the only part of him that never changed, exactly the same shade of blue in both forms.

"Sherlock," he said, "did I hurt you?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No," he lied. "Are you all right?"

John stretched out his arms, wincing as a joint in his shoulder popped. "No worse than the usual -- though I can't exactly say the same for you." He reached over to where Sherlock was leaning against the sofa, touched the bloody scratches on Sherlock's hips. "I did this to you."

"I asked you to," answered Sherlock.

"You _did,_ " said John, and suddenly he lunged at Sherlock, knocking them both backward onto the floor. "Are you out of your _mind?_ " he said, voice vicious, pulling Sherlock's hair back so hard he winced. The pain shot through his body and straight to his cock. "You were really going to -- are you _insane?_ "

"Not insane," said Sherlock. He didn't mention that John seemed to have been going along with it -- or had he been stalling, waiting for the dawn to Change him back? Sherlock couldn't tell. He reached up to touch John's face. "Are you disgusted with me? Revolted? I simply want all of you. I don't want there to be any part of you I haven't touched, any secret of yours I don't know intimately."

"There _isn't,_ you moron, you know me better than I know myself."

John mouthed at Sherlock's throat, sinking his teeth into his jugular. The pain blossomed bright behind his eyelids and Sherlock's hips jerked up to meet John's as he let out a groan. John grabbed hold of his shoulder and flipped him over quickly so that Sherlock's cheek was pressed against the floor, pushed two fingers roughly into his arse. Sherlock moaned louder, hands scrabbling at the wooden floor. He pushed back onto John's fingers, wanting more. He felt the head of John's cock at his entrance, and John entered him in one sudden movement that had them both crying out.

"You -- bloody -- fucking -- _psychopath_ \-- " said John with each thrust, gripping Sherlock's hips hard with his fingertips, on top of the scratches he'd made just minutes earlier.

"Sociopath," Sherlock replied, out of breath, and raised himself up onto his hands and knees. John leaned forward, chest to Sherlock's back, fucking him hard and proper. He scraped his nails fiercely over Sherlock's arse, and Sherlock let himself imagine they were claws.

"Next time," said Sherlock, "next full moon, John, please, _please._ " He clenched tightly around John's cock over and over, each of John's thrusts jerking his entire body forward. It would be the greatest gift that John could ever give to him, letting Sherlock have all of him. He would never ask John for anything more.

"God, yes, if you want it that much," gasped John. He bit down on the back of Sherlock's neck, hard, and Sherlock screamed, coming so hard his vision whited out. He was dimly aware of John pulling out, only a moment to ache for the loss when John turned him over again and jerked himself until he was coming all over Sherlock's chest and belly, Sherlock's face.

They remained for a second in those positions, panting and catching their breath. Sherlock ached all over but in the good way, the kind of ache he'd be feeling for days as a pleasant memory. He raised himself on one elbow and used his other hand to smear the semen on his skin, both of theirs combined.

"You're impossible," said John, looking flushed and satisfied. He took hold of Sherlock's hand and licked the fluid from his fingers. "Is there nothing you won't do in the name of science?"

"Not for science," said Sherlock, "for love. And there isn't."

John looked at him contemplatively. "Next full moon," he said, and leaned down, crushing their lips together. Sherlock could taste blood on his tongue -- he wasn't sure whose, but in the end, it hardly mattered.


End file.
